were galloping toward him, just like in a movie.
This is so weird, Luke was thinking as his mind drifted... His eyes were so heavy he had to close them. A phrase from the dream floated through his mind: I’ll come for you by midnight steed...
Then just before the black closed in, he smelled that honey scent, the sweet, feminine fragrance from his dream, and there was a sense of presence suddenly, something warm and live.
He looked up into eyes as blue as the sky, eyes that it seemed he had always known...and heard a woman’s voice in his ear: “I’ll take care of you.”
And weirdly, even if maybe he was dying, it suddenly felt that somehow everything was going to be all right. Maybe more all right than it had ever been in his life.
Behind the woman there was a figure of a wiry man leaning jauntily up against a container, shaking his head. Luke heard him say, “Oh, darling, you are in so much trouble...”
And then everything went black.
Luke woke because there was motion—not just motion, but the sensation of speeding.
Speeding where?
I thought I was dead. Am I dead?
But the motion was familiar, not anything ethereal at all. He was...
In a car?
That makes no sense.
How did I get...?
He forced his eyes open, saw headlights racing over an open highway, nearly deserted—eerie lights floating in the fog, the night flying past outside a passenger window.
Maybe I am dead.
No, he was in a car, his own car, and it was being driven by...
He turned his head painfully toward the driver’s seat.
A woman?
He guessed she was in her late twenties, although as soon as he thought it something in him said he was wrong. In the dark he could see a perfect feminine profile, alabaster skin and luxurious hair shimmering even in the half-light...
Red hair?
She was in a simple pale dress, gold, he thought, that slipped silkily over a figure that could only be called spectacular. Those lush curves...
“Who are you?” he said thickly. His throat seemed to be closed up.
She careened around a turn. “I’ll explain when you’re safe,” she answered breathlessly.
“Safe? What the hell...?”
A wave of pain cut him off. Right. He’d been shot. Shot bad. In fact, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead.
“You need to rest,” the woman at the wheel said, reproving. “Try to sleep.”
Try to sleep? Is she joking?
“Not till you tell me...”
He stopped, because he didn’t know where to start. Who was she, how could she possibly have gotten him off the dock and into a car, where were they going, what was she doing there in the first place?
If he could just stop the car from spinning, he was going to get some answers.
“Who are you?” he said again, more faintly.
She said something that sounded like...
“Bodyguard?” he repeated in disbelief, and stared at her with all the skepticism of a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound male looking at a one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound woman. Bodyguard? Her body was—well, there was not a thing wrong with it. Those long, lithe legs, those curves... It was perfect, in fact, for a dancer maybe, but a bodyguard?
“Whose...bodyguard?”
“Yours,” she said softly, just before he passed out again.
* * *
Aurora breathed easier once Luke was out again. Talking would only cause him anxiety, when what he needed was absolute rest. Well, not absolute rest in the sense of “final rest.” Just rest.
She stared out at the dark road in front of her, and clenched her hands on the wheel.
She’d known Val was up to something.
Aurora could tell, could always tell. They were sisters, and Aurora knew every trick in Val’s encyclopedia-length book. Normally she wouldn’t worry about what her sister was planning; after all, the future was only ever that. It was the present where everything significant ever happened, and the present determined the future, and the present was Aurora’s business. But it was the way Val had looked at her this morning—as if whatever was in that beautiful dark scheming head had something intimately to do with Aurora—that had made the alarm bells go off.
Val had made noises about a hot date, but Aurora was sure that she’d seen her sister slip a pair of scissors into her belt. Not just scissors, but gold scissors, which meant that Val was planning to cut some mortal’s thread.
And the gnawing in the pit of Aurora’s stomach made her think it was not just any mortal, but the one mortal that she...
“Cared about” was not the right phrase. She cared about all mortals, the way a doting owner would care for beloved pets. Even the worst ones had been innocent children once; it was never anyone’s intention to go wrong.
But in the five thousand years since she’d been looking after them, she’d never felt this way about anyone but one.
She remembered the first time she’d seen him—as a baby, of course. It was her job to stand with her two sisters at the cribs of their assigned list of mortals, and determine the weave—past, present and future—of each mortal’s fate.
From the first second she’d seen the infant Luke Mars, she’d known the shape of his whole life and everything about him. At that moment she knew with absolute conviction that he was the only man she would ever love—love as she was never supposed to love a mortal.
And as all these confusing sensations and convictions swept over her, while Aurora stood dumbstruck, staring down into his baby-blue eyes...
Her sister Val had claimed him as her own.
Claimed him for herself and for Odin, Odin Allfather, Almighty Warrior King of the Gods.
Which might sound like an honor, but really what it meant was early, glorious death.
Aurora had never understood what about death could possibly be glorious.
It was a scam, was all, a bunch of PR hype. Odin needed warriors and the Valkyries, women warriors like her sister, went out making it happen...
A head popped up from the backseat, startling Aurora so that she swerved and nearly ran off the road.
“Never let a Norn drive,” the intruder tsked.
“Loki!” Aurora was both limp with relief and pissed beyond belief. The man—although not a man exactly—in the backseat was irritatingly handsome, young and dark-haired and dark-eyed. That is, when he wasn’t red-haired or golden-haired or Asian or African or Latin. Or female, for that matter. You never could tell with a shape-shifter. He was Loki: trickster, shifter and magician, the bane of the whole pantheon of the gods in Asgard.
“You’ve really torn it this time, lovely.” He smirked at her in the rearview mirror. “Crossing destiny, abducting a mortal. And for what?” He leaned forward in the seat, looked over Luke’s unconscious body.
“Oh, my. Not bad actually...”
“He’s mine,” she said with such fiery conviction that she